The pain struck suddenly, tearing through the back of your thigh like a heated spike. The bullet had gone in deep, and moments later hot, sticky blood was running down your leg. The muscle spasms were sharp and relentless, each breath feeling like a battle against the weight of the pain. Numbness began to creep into your body, and a burning pulse radiated from the wound all the way down to your calf.

You had blacked out several times, the darkness taking you without warning, only to be pulled back by a jolt of pain or the cold touch of air on your exposed skin.

Now you lay on your stomach on a field cot. Your hands trembled as you struggled to keep the oxygen mask pressed to your mouth. Your breathing was fast and uneven, the metallic scent of blood mixing with the sting of iodine in the air.

Soap knelt at your side, his face tense, brows furrowed. In his hand was a syringe, and the chill of antiseptic on your skin was the only warning before the next sting. The needle went straight into your thigh, right into the already injured muscle, and the burning of the anesthetic spread deep through the tissue, mingling with the throbbing of the wound.

Price stood at your side, holding your hand and pressing the mask more firmly to your face when your grip began to weaken. His hold was steady, keeping you still while Soap prepared to stitch the wound and extract the bullet.

The air was thick with the scent of sweat, blood, and sterile solution, and all you could focus on was the pressure of the mask and the cold bite of the needle that briefly drowned out the earlier searing pain.